


all my bones coming back

by zweebie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domesticity, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Hates Dogs, M/M, Nightmares, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), and by fluff i don't mean fluff i mean angst with a sprinkling of fluff, anyway jonmartin deserves the world, but i wrote it in a tma binge induced frenzy and it is what it is, i meant for this to be so much fluffier than it ended up being
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zweebie/pseuds/zweebie
Summary: Slowly, Jon and Martin grapple with things, tie up loose ends. It's a lot to get used to.OR, a safehouse fix-it, because they deserve it.
Relationships: (<, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 98





	all my bones coming back

**Author's Note:**

> title from "line without a hook" by ricky montgomery, because i'm a sappy bitch like that

It feels like they only actually start to breathe once they’re on the train. They’re frazzled, cobbled together, and wearing the clothes that they’d had stashed at the institute. Their bags are packed with a mess of objects—sweaters, money, two umbrellas, a flashlight, and no tapes. They’re exhausted and the brightening sky outside continues to remind them how long it’s been since they last rested, but at least there are no tapes.   


No tape recorders, either. Although the click of the recorder stays in Martin’s head, makes his fingers itch and—

“Martin, there aren’t any in there,” Jon says from beside him, placing a hand on Martin’s arm. 

Martin pulls it out of the bag, zipping it up again and sighing. “I know. I know, I just—”

“You just can’t stop thinking about Elias.” Jon meets his eyes. “Yes. I can’t either.”

“He was there. In the panopticon. I mean, I could have killed him. I should have killed him. I  _ wanted  _ to kill him.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. And I...I know it was the right choice. But it feels—it feels like a loose end, and I hate it.”

“There are so many loose ends. It’s...terrifying,” Jon says, and his voice shakes on the word. Martin wants to put his arms around him. Then he realises he can, and he does. Jon leans into the embrace. “We’re out, though. That’s good.”

“I still want to kill him.” Martin laughs a little. “Next time we see him, I’m not letting that—that weasel say anything. It’s just: bam bam. Done.”

Jon’s facing away, but Martin feels him smile against his arm. “Yes?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Maybe Daisy and Basira should have taught  _ you  _ how to use a gun.”

“Maybe they were scared of me.”

Jon laughs at that. “They should have been.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t know what’s coming.”

For a while, it’s comfortably silent. The countryside races by, sun now well and fully risen, sky that specific and gorgeous shade of pale blue. Jon shifts slightly in Martin’s arms, and Martin feels a wave of  _ something _ , something big, wash over him, and he needs to shut his eyes so the tears won’t spill over.

It’s still fresh in his mind. The fog, Peter Lukas, Jon’s face piercing through it all.  _ I’m here. I came for you. I thought you might be lost.  _ And then Jon’s hands cupping Martin’s face, _ Look at me and tell me what you see.  _ He’d tipped Martin’s head up so their eyes met, and—

So much. The years gone by. Small favors, milk and sugar, hands brushed together over desks. Quiet admiration, adoration, and then love, so much love, pent up and chained and threatening to spill over like a tidal wave. 

Martin saw. He understood.

Jon really had liked the tea, the whole time.

Now they’re here, and Martin knows Jon is still afraid, hell,  _ Martin’s  _ afraid, but they’re here, and they’re together and it’s...it’s almost too much. Too much happiness. But it doesn’t feel wrong.

The movement of the train is calming, and Martin finds himself realising how long it’s been since he’s felt something like it. How long had it been since he’d left London? Left the institute, really, other than to go to his apartment? How long has it been since he’s seen actual  _ grass?  _ Then something occurs to him.

“Jon, where are we actually going?”

“Hm? We’re going to Scotland. You bought the tickets.”

“No, yeah I—I know that, but where are we  _ going?  _ What’s in Scotland? You said there was somewhere safe, but you never said what.?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I hadn’t told you. Daisy has a safe house, for when she didn’t want to be tracked down. She has several, but this one’s far away enough. I think. I hope. For the monsters not to reach us.”

“That’s good. Scary, but good.” Martin glances down at his wristwatch. “Shouldn’t Basira have called by now?”

“I don’t know. The attack was bad, I think. We’re just going to have to be patient.”

Martin sighs. “I know. I just...I want to hear what’s going on. I want to  _ know.” _

“We will soon. I hope. Right now...I can’t see, but after it clears up, we’ll call in. See it in the news or something.”

“Yeah.”

They sit there for a moment, and then Jon shifts a little, threading their fingers together. “This is good, though,” he says, half muffled by Martin’s arm. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it—it is.” And Martin leans his head against Jon’s, letting the rhythm of the train lull him to sleep.

* * *

Later that morning, Martin’s phone finally buzzes. It’s eleven or so, and he and Jon are sitting in the station cafe, inhaling cheap ham and cheese sandwiches. It feels like it’s been hours since either of them have eaten. It has been hours since either of them have eaten. Even Jon, who’d made a slightly off-color joke about missing his regular statement diet, seemed happy with it.

The phone’s been sitting on the table, screen up, and Martin picks it up shakily on the first ring.

“Basira—”

“Martin,” she said, by way of greeting.

“Basira, what’s—what’s going on? Are you okay? Is the institute alright, where’s Daisy, what’s happened with the monsters, are you…” he makes himself slow down (Basira waits, and he’s grateful). “Are you okay?”

“I’m safe.”

“Daisy?”

“Yeah, she’s here. She’s not fine, but she’s here.”

“What happened?”

“She went full Hunt. But she’s back now.”

“Okay. That’s—that’s good.”

“I’m glad, because the rest of my news isn’t.”

Basira hangs up, which Martin’s glad of because he’s not sure his hands are steady enough to press the button. He turns to Jon, whose face is grim.

“I take it I don’t need to explain all of that to you.”

“I heard enough,” Jon says, eyes tired.

“At least the Institute is alright. I mean, by our standards.”

“A little monstering isn’t too new, yes. And the police-men getting lost—”

“Bad. But apparently fairly normal for Section 31. Which means they’re not likely to cause a big stink about it.”

“And Daisy…”

“Yeah. I’m glad.”

“I couldn’t really hear, did Basira—did she tell you anything else about her? Anything in more detail?”

“No. She didn’t. She didn’t want to talk about it.” Martin looks at Jon, who shuts his eyes for a moment. “Do you think that’s a bad sign?”

“I think…” Jon sighs. “I don’t know what to think. Do I think it’s good that she came back at all? Yes. It’s miraculous, really. I didn’t think it was even possible, not after going all the way like that. But…” he shakes his head as if ridding himself of the thought. “I don’t know. It’s good.”

“Jon.” Martin says, reaching across the table and tilting Jon’s chin up so he meets his eyes. “Don’t do that. Don’t cut me off.”

Jon looks at him for a moment, and something behind his eyes breaks. “I’m scared, Martin.”

“Yeah.”

“I just wish I knew what she had to do. To come back. I want to know what I...what I need to do.”

“Hey,” Martin says, taking Jon’s hand in his own. “Hey. I love you, okay? We have time.”

“Yes,” Jon murmurs. Then, as if shaking something off, “yes. Yes, we do.” He raises Martin’s hand, kisses it briefly on the knuckles. Martin still isn’t used to it—this casual onslaught of  _ love.  _ He’s not sure he ever will. “I love you, too, Martin. Thank you.” He smiles, sadly, and Martin does the same.

* * *

The safehouse is small, and far enough off the grid that their cab almost misses it. It has a small kitchen, a living room, a balcony, and an office, although Martin can’t fathom what Daisy would use it for. Her interest in policing seemed less focused on the paperwork side and more on the murdering innocents one.  
Although she’d gotten better, he knows that. He shouldn’t be so harsh. And she did provide them with this house, after all.

The balcony is nice, though Martin’s only seen it briefly. It’s pleasantly cool outside, foggy and wet, but in less of the oppressive London way he’s used to. It’s more refreshing. He doesn’t think about the comparisons to the Lonely—the small town, the rolling mist, the empty countryside mere meters away. He doesn’t. Jon is here, and he doesn’t think about it. Anyway, Martin’s more the type to read in an armchair by the fireplace. 

The living room is more like that; it’s sparely furnished, and he’s pretty sure Daisy doesn’t know the definition of a throw blanket, but it has a fireplace and a sofa, as well as a dusty, near-empty bookshelf. 

“Shame,” Martin had said when they’d walked in, “I know books are important to your professor aesthetic.”

Jon had scoffed. “My  _ professor aesthetic _ ?” 

“The tired, angry professor thing. Do you not do that on purpose?”

“I absolutely do  _ not _ have a professor aesthetic. Academia, if anything.”

“You’re not telling me those are two different things.”

“They are!”

“Okay, Jon, I believe you,” in a tone that said he didn’t.

Jon  _ hmphed.  _ “I’m pretty sure I’ve already seen enough  _ books  _ for this lifetime, anyway,” he’d said, and then he’d gone upstairs to put their bags away.

Martin, meanwhile, made a quick stop in the kitchen. It’s small, sparse, but there’s a large window over the sink that lets just enough sun in for it to be cozy. There’s not much food, no, but they’d stopped at the minimart on the way to get some of the basics. 

Of course, that wouldn’t be enough for long. Martin made a mental note to ask Basira to send up some statements.

* * *

During the nights, Jon and Martin wake up. Sometimes screaming, sometimes crying. The monsters that can’t follow them through the safehouse doors make it into their dreams, take hold, infest. 

Martin will wake up crying, silent, heaving tears, shaking shoulders. He curls in on himself, trying to brush off the fog that clings to and sinks through his skin. Peter Lukas’s voice echoes in his head. Jon pulls him in, turns him around so they’re facing each other, holds Martin’s face in his hands. Takes the whimpers of  _ It was so empty, Jon, I forgot my own name, I forgot  _ your  _ name, Jon, and you couldn’t find me, _ and holds him in his arms, and Martin feels so, so small. 

Jon has nightmares, too. Different, but just as often, just as terrible and monstrous. He’ll wake up crying out, clutching his chest or his neck or his arm. Screaming about doors, winding hallways, fracturing minds and mazes and fingers that cut. Gasping, clawing at his skin, brushing and swatting at it like it’s covered in worms. Sometimes, he’ll wake throwing the blanket off of himself, scrambling to the center of the bed so that he’s as far away from each wall as possible. Martin knows not to touch him, on those nights. 

And then, there are the nightmares of the watcher. They both get them, but Jon’s are something else. Waking up clawing at his own eyes as if he wants to gouge them out, gasping and grabbing at Martin and telling him he can’t look at him, can’t open his eyes, because then  _ he’ll  _ know, he’ll know about all of it, he’ll come after them. Martin aches to see him like this, but he averts his eyes, holding Jon’s hands firmly so he stops scratching, rubbing them with his thumbs and going  _ It’s okay, take your time, I’m here,  _ until Jon’s breathing slows and he just cries, silent and shaking sobs.

Most times, they don’t go back to sleep. Not at first. Instead, Martin and Jon sit in bed, huddled against each other, and talk. Anything that will chase off the darkness. They tell each other about their childhoods, about college. They talk about the movies they’ve watched (in Jon’s case, virtually none, and Martin has an ongoing list of those he wants to show him), and the books they’d hated most in high school. Jon tells Martin about being in his high school play (Martin laughs out loud at that, Jon indignant), and Martin tells Jon about the sci-fi novel he was writing for years (Jon insists on reading it, Martin says, steadfastly, that he never will, absolutely not, and no, Jon, that pleading face isn’t going to get you anywhere, as adorable as it is). 

On those nights Martin is filled with such a blistering rage he’s not sure how it doesn’t come out, flames licking at his hands and skin. He’s not even sure what it’s directed at.

Well, that’s a lie. He knows what— _ who  _ did this to them. Who put them here, who warped them and destroyed them both. Plagued them with these fears, these dread powers, so deeply that even now, when they’re safe, they still come after them. And who’s probably sitting now, smug and comfortably in his tower. Martin wants to kill him.

But Jon is here, finally falling asleep in a sweater that’s far too big for him, and Martin finds himself tired too. Maybe, just maybe, they can relax. They’re here now. At least they have that.

* * *

The town itself is tiny, but oddly nice. Pleasant. Nice to walk through, like they’re doing now. There’s a certain charm to the squat little houses, to the paths winding in order to fit into the low and rolling hills. Martin likes the city, but he can’t help but fantasize, for a moment, about a life someplace like this. Quiet, serene. Trips to the farmers market every weekend. And highland cows everywhere.   


“God, this place is freezing,” Jon grumbles beside him, and Martin looks at him. He’s shivering, arms crossed, and already wearing two sweaters. He’s thin, even more so than usual, and Martin knows why. The distance from the eye, from the statements, is eating at Jon.

Still, he’s allowed to poke fun a little. “How are you cold  _ all the time?”  _

“Shut up, Martin. Aren’t you supposed to give me your jacket, or something?”

“Tough. I’m cold too,” Martin says, but he really isn’t. If Jon’s always too cold, then Martin’s always too warm. “Fine,” he says in a put-upon voice, shrugging off his hoodie and passing it to Jon, who squirms into it and resumes his shivering.

“How chivalrous of you.”

“It was against my will,” Martin says delicately. They walk for a moment more, looking around, and then he continues. “You can’t say it’s not pretty, though.”

“I guess it is. In a bleak, grey sort of way.”

“Oh, don’t.”

“The cows are nice.”

“They are! And isn’t it nice to have some space? Some peace and quiet?”

Jon smiles, without much humor in it. “That’s very Lonely of you to say.”

“Oh, shut up. Anyway, that’s not possible anymore. I have you.” 

There’s a beat where Jon just looks at him, and then he smiles softly. “Yes, I suppose you do.” He reaches for Martin’s hand, threading their fingers together.

Martin flinches. “Jesus, your hands  _ are  _ cold.”

“ _ Martin,  _ I’m an avatar of the Eye, it’s not exactly time to call me  _ Jesus.” _

“That’s not what I—” Martin starts, snickering, when out of nowhere a golden dog the size of a small bear barrels into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. 

Jon yells. Then, “Where did that thing come from?”

Martin laughs in delight as the dog comes running back, sniffing him and letting Martin scratch its ears. “Yeah, good boy. Good boy, you.” Martin looks up for Jon, who’s standing a few feet away with his lip curled. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of  _ dogs. _ ”

“I’m not—I’m not afraid of them, they’re just so... _ wet.  _ Slobbery.”

“I have no idea what you—” the dog jumps up at Martin, who is now crouched down on a knee in front of it. Its paws land on his shoulder, and it starts frantically licking at his face. “Okay, I—” Martin sputters, laughing, “I guess I—I get that.” He finally succeeds in pushing the dog off, but it just dances in a circle and over to Jon, sniffing and licking and tail wagging at a hundred miles an hour. 

“Oh, no no, I don’t like that, I’m not your friend,” Jon protests, putting his hands up. Then “Oh, god, oh god,” as it jumps around him enthusiastically.

Martin can’t stop laughing, but he claps his hands and the dog turns around, ears perked. When it gets close enough, he leans down to look at the tag hanging from its collar.

“Don’t tell me we’re taking it home, or something,” Jon says.

“No, I just think it would be good to see who the owner is. I mean, what if it’s lost?”

“Then that’s none of our business.”

“I want to bring him back before he gets hit by a car or something. Here, there’s a phone number on the back. It’ll only take a moment.”

“God, curse you and your...humanitarianism.”

It only does take a moment: the owner picks up on the third ring, frantic with worry, and she gives them her address. She’s only five minutes away. She thanks them, explains how her dear had jumped the back fence, rushed off and gotten completely lost. She offers them “tea, or coffee, or anything, money, or something, to thank you for bringing back my baby,” but they politely decline. 

“So what, you don’t like animals?” Martin asks as they walk away. 

“I don’t know. I mean, I like cats. The Admiral liked me.”

“You know, I’ve heard so much about this  _ Admiral  _ character, and I’m still yet to meet him.”

Jon laughs. “Maybe you can, when we go back to London.” He quiets a little. “If Georgie ever speaks to me again.”

Martin looks at the ground for a moment. Then, “So no chance for a pet?”

He chuckles, once. “Jury’s still out on that one. Not a slobbery dog, at least.”   


“But a cat, you’d be up for that.”

“You know, I think that would actually be rather nice.”

Martin nods. “A cat. We could have a cat.” He laughs, and throws his arm around Jon’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t that be something?”

* * *

What happens shouldn’t take Martin by surprise, but it does. It’s all so quick.  


He’d just finished talking to Basira, had walked back to the cabin. Her words are still ringing in his ears. Police, terrorists, the tunnels. The only good news was Daisy. She was finally recovered enough to talk (although recovered from  _ what,  _ Martin still doesn’t know.) When Martin had called she’d been sleeping, but Martin made Basira promise to call again a couple days later. He’s not even sure if Daisy will want to speak to him, after how he yelled at her. But he wants to know she’s safe, at least. 

The package is there, like Basira said it would be. Sitting in the mailbox. 

He’s not sure what compels him to glance through the papers. Simple curiosity? Or was something pushing him? Whatever it was, he didn’t intend it to be anything more than a cursory skim, seeing what horrors Basira had so kindly provided. 

What he notices first were the tapes, littered amongst the papers. And a tape recorder, which makes Martin’s heart skip a beat. But, well. Jon always seemed more... _ sated  _ when he recorded the statements, anyway, so maybe that was just Basira being considerate. Good on her for remembering, he supposes. Even if he may or may not want to throw the thing out on the spot. 

Then, though, the words, printed across the page of the first statement, right under the heading and name. 

_ Hello, Jon. _

Something seizes inside of him, and he flips to the next page, brow furrowing. 

There, printed plainly in the professional cursive Martin knows so well.  _ Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. _

Martin’s hands go limp, the pages nearly dropping to the ground. 

_ Fuck. _

* * *

Time feels slow as Martin walks up the stairs, chewing on the inside of his cheek so hard it draws blood. He doesn’t feel it. All he can feel is the paper slowly crinkling under his white-knuckled grip.  


Jon is sitting cross-legged in an armchair reading, but he puts the book down and stands as Martin enters the room. “How was she?” he asks, smiling. Then he meets Martin’s eyes, and his face falls. “What happened?” he asks. Then, stronger, “Martin, what happened?”

“I—he—” Martin drops the statements as his tears spill over. Jon rushes forward, reaching out as if to help, and Martin yells. “No,  _ don’t  _ touch—don’t go near them. Please,” he says, voice breaking.

Jon stops in his tracks, but Martin can tell it takes everything in his power to do so. “Martin, what... _ what did Basira send us?” _

Martin bites his lip, trying to hold back more sobs as he shakily gathers up the pages. “It’s not. It’s not Basira, Jon. Elias sent a statement.”

For a second it’s as if Jon’s mouth doesn’t work; he gapes, trying to form words but no sound comes out. “I—I don’t understand, she wouldn’t help him—how did it get in there?  _ Why _ would he—”

“I don’t know!” Martin cries, finally stuffing them back into their envelope but not standing up again. He’s not sure his legs are strong enough. “I don’t know, but—but there it is, okay, Jonah Magnus, printed right there, no, don’t look, it’s not...it’s not safe. Christ.”

“But how—why now? Why would he—”

“I don’t have the answers for you, okay? I don’t know. I don’t know anything, I just. I don’t understand either.”

Jon’s eyes are wide, and he’s still for a moment. “Elias...Elias sent us a statement.”

Martin sobs again, clamping a hand over his mouth to stop another. “Yeah. Yeah.” Jon starts to sit down, and Martin puts a hand up. “Far away. Please. I don’t...I don’t know what this thing will do. What it’ll do to  _ you.” _

“Okay,” Jon says, softly, and moves back, settling down a few meters away from Martin. “Okay.”

For another moment it’s silent, Martin’s shoulders shaking and Jon staring, wide-eyed, at the floor in front of him. 

Tentatively, Jon speaks. “Have you...read it?”

“No. No, and I’m not going to. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

“Alright. Alright, that’s… that’s okay.” Jon inhales, rubbing his face with his hands. Then, quieter, “What are we going to do, Martin?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.”

* * *

In the end, they lock the statement up. In one of the disturbingly many lockboxes that Daisy keeps, in the back of the closet, on Martin’s side. Martin piles clothes on top of it, and they don’t make him any more comfortable, but at least he can pretend they do. He can’t get Elias’s face out of his head, his smug voice. Every time he thinks about what might have happened if Jon had read the statement, it stops him in his tracks.  


If he’s suffering, though, Jon is faring even worse. The hunger, it seems, is finally catching up for real.

“Are you feeling alright?” Martin asks, passing Jon a mug of Earl Gray. Jon’s sitting in bed, blanket over his legs, and he looks pale and tired, but he still smiles up at Martin as he takes the tea. “The night of sleep do you any good?”

“Not really.” He sips. “But thank you. For this.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Martin sits on the bed at Jon’s feet. “How are you feeling, though? Give me details, I want to help.”

Jon laughs ruefully. “I’m not sure you can help with this one, Martin. I mean, outside of—”

“I know, I know, letting you read the statement. Which would be insane.”

“Yes. Yes, it would. I didn’t mean for that to come out so...passive aggressive.” He sighs. “I’m just tired. I mean, I’ve been tired this whole time, ever since we left the institute, but it’s more bone-deep, more... _ intense.  _ I don’t know how to describe it. But I think having that thing here is making it worse.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

He breathes in, out, before he meets Martin’s eyes. “I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

Martin puts a hand on Jon’s leg, then withdraws it, sighing. “Well, if real food will satisfy you in any way, I’m going to start breakfast. Eggs okay with you?”

Jon brightens as if shaking off a weight. “Yes, please.”

“Okay,” Martin says, standing and walking over to the stairs. He stops with his hand on the railing, looking back. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

He smiles a little. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but...I’m sorry.”

* * *

“I’m back!” Martin calls, nudging the door open with his hip. His hands are occupied: in one hand he holds his satchel, in the other, he sorts through the contents. “They didn’t have your archaeology documentaries, but I did find one on the Vikings, which I hope will suffice. Also,” with a little laugh, “men in armor is a plus—”  


He cuts himself off as he realises he’s talking to no one. The living room is empty. “Jon?” Jon is sick, but he’s not  _ bed-ridden  _ sick. So where is he?

Martin checks the kitchen, but that’s empty, too. Then the balcony. He clenches his fists, urging the rising panic back down. It’s fine. It’s probably fine, he’s just...taking a nap or something. So he goes upstairs to check.

What he finds freezes him in his tracks. 

The closet doors are thrown open. Martin’s clothes are strewn across the floor, and Jon is crouched over the lockbox, fingers shaky and scrambling over the lock, turning it and turning it, too fast to even click.

“Oh no, oh no no no no,” Martin cries, and Jon doesn’t look up at him. Martin can see his eyes widen and his hands pick up speed. “Oh, god,” he whimpers, and rushes forward, crouching down and grabbing Jon’s hands. They continue to twitch and thrash, but Martin’s grip is firm. And still, Jon’s eyes stay locked on the box. “Jon, stop, Jon, Jon, wake up,  _ please.”  _ Martin bites his lip and then slaps Jon across the face.

Jon freezes, and then he shakes a little, falling towards Martin. Martin catches him by the shoulders, holds him up, grabs his face. “Jon, is that you?”

Jon grabs Martin’s hands, eyes wild and unfocused. “Martin.”

“Jon. Jon,  _ look at me.” _

“Martin…” slowly, Jon’s gaze turns toward the lockbox, and his eyes go wide. “Did I...oh god.  _ Oh god.”  _ He jumps up, scrambles backwards, hands shaking. 

Martin stands up, stepping towards Jon, and Jon throws up his hands.

“No, don’t—don’t touch me, I’m not  _ safe,  _ I—”

“Okay, okay, just. Okay.” He stops, hands still up in a  _ keep calm _ gesture. “ Jon, you’re still you. You didn’t do anything.”

“If you hadn’t shown up, if you hadn’t come home then, then—”

“But I did. I did, alright? You didn’t. Do. Anything."

Jon stares, then nods slowly. “Yes. Yes...I...yes.”

Martin moves forward again, slowly this time so Jon has time to protest, but he doesn’t. He crumples against Martin’s chest when he wraps his arms around him, tears shuddering out. “Shh, shh,” he murmurs, and he just holds him until Jon’s shoulders stop shaking. He pulls back slightly, takes Jon’s face in his hands. “Jon, tell me what happened.”

“Put it away, first. Please. I don’t want to be able to see it,” Jon says into Martin’s shirt. 

“Okay.” Martin picks up the lockbox, placing it back on its shelf and shutting the closet doors. He looks at Jon for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs."

They sit down at the little kitchen table, across from each other. Jon is slightly less shaky, and Martin does everything he can to stay not break down, to not let his fear show. “Tell me what happened.”

Jon puts his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know. I didn’t really feel it? I mean, I didn’t feel most of it.”

“Then tell me what you did feel."

Jon’s hands still cover his face, but Martin can see through the cracks that he’s covered his eyes. “I felt this need. This roiling,  _ desperate  _ need—I guess it wasn’t so different from the hunger I’ve felt for the last few days. Distance from the archive, from the statements, and all of that. It’s the same as when I was in America. But this was something stronger, yanking at me like,” he laughs mirthlessly, “like puppet strings, I guess.”

Martin’s brow knits. “Wait, are you saying the  _ Web _ —”

“No, no, It’s just—just a turn of phrase.” He sighs, then continues. “I don’t actually remember what happened after that. I mean, you saw. But I didn’t actually  _ feel  _ it. It was just darkness, blank until you slapped me.” Softly, he continues. “I wonder if that’s what...I wonder if that’s what it’ll be like when I finally turn.”

“Stop,” Martin says firmly. “Don’t talk like that, I won’t hear of it. You’re not a  _ monster,  _ you’re not.”

There’s a pause, and then Jon simply says “Alright.”

“So, this hunger, your— _ roiling, desperate need _ —it can be satisfied with statements? Any statements?”

“I think so. I hope so.”

“So that just means we need to call Basira and have her send some more.”

“Right.”

“Well, we’re going out to town to call her today, anyway, so that works out just fine. Will you...will you be alright? To do that? To go out?”

“I think I will be. I mean, I’m just tired, I’ll be fine.”

“That’s good.”

Jon shuts his eyes. “Martin, the statement. Are we...what are we doing?”

“What do you mean?” Martin asks, although he knows the question’s unnecessary.

“Are we going to read it? What, confront Elias? What are we going to do?”

“I really don’t know, Jon. I really don’t.” Martin fidgets, picking at his cuticles. “Can we figure this out later? It’s nearly time to go.”

“Fine.”

* * *

“I still can’t believe your favorite ice cream flavor is  _ rum raisin. _ ” They’re at the ice cream shop in town. It’s tiny, the inside only a counter and one table, so Martin and Jon are sitting at one of the picnic tables outside. It’s overcast and downright gloomy, but at least the breeze is nice. Not exactly ice cream weather, but it’s fine.

“What’s wrong with rum raisin?”

“You’re thirty-one, not eighty-five. Where’s the fun?”

“It’s better than strawberry. I don’t know how you stand that brand of sickly-sweet.”

“Oh, you go so hard on the brooding, bitter old man thing—”

“Excuse me!”

“I’m Jonathan Sims, I hate dogs, I tell my coworkers I’m ten years older than I am and I eat  _ rum raisin ice cream _ .”   
  
“Okay, now this is offensive,” Jon scoffs, and Martin laughs. “Anyway, you know how much I love being mocked—”

“Of course.”

“...but wasn’t Basira supposed to call us? I thought that was the only reason we came here.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t love this place.” Martin glances down at his watch. “But you’re right. She did say she would call at three, and it’s—” The phone starts to ring in his hand. “Oh, there it is! Right on schedule, I guess."

He picks up the phone. “Basira, hi!”

But it’s not Basira’s voice that answers. “Hi, Martin.”

_ “Daisy!”  _ he cries joyfully. 

Jon’s jaw drops, and he makes grabbing gestures at the phone.

“Oh, hush, I’ll just put it on speaker.” He does. “Daisy, hi! How are you, how have you been?”

“I’ve been...good. I’m alright. Healing.”

Jon leans forward in his seat. “How are you and Basira?”

“We’re good. Better than good, really. I mean, we’re together, so we’re happy.”

Jon looks at Martin, eyebrows raised and clearly holding back a smile.  _ Together?  _ the expression says.

Martin shrugs. “Wait, like  _ together  _ together?”

“Yeah,  _ together  _ together,” Daisy says, and you can hear the smile in her voice.

Martin claps a hand to his mouth, smiling like an idiot. 

“That’s great,” Jon says, “I mean, congratulations!”

_ “Finally!”  _ Martin interjects.

“Let me guess, they’re being ridiculous about it,” Basira says, faint.

Daisy laughs. “Not so much, actually.”

“We’re just happy for you, it’s been a long time coming,” Martin says, grinning.

He can hear the smile on Daisy’s voice as she says “Right.”

There’s a short silence, and then Martin speaks. “Daisy, I'm so sorry, for—for everything I said. Telling you to, to bugger off, and all. It was—”

“It was the Lonely,” Daisy says. “Thank you for apologising, but it’s okay. You’re not the only one who’s done shitty things because of a power.”

“Y—yeah,” Martin says softly.

“Daisy, about that. Are you okay?” Jon asks. “I mean, I’m sorry, that’s a stupid question. I just mean...the Hunt is dangerous, it’s one of the most drastic transformations. And from what Basira said...did it leave any scars?”

“Yeah, it left some pretty massive ones, actually.”

Martin and Jon exchange a worried glance. “...like?” Martin asks tentatively.

Daisy sighs, but not in a frustrated way. “Basira had to shoot my legs. Can’t hunt if you can’t walk, right?” She laughs mirthlessly. “It’s alright, though. I mean, I’m in a wheelchair, but it’s not the worst thing that could have happened. At least I’m free of it.”

“Oh,  _ Daisy.” _

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gravely.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Will it...heal?” Martin asks.

“I’m not actually sure. The doctors said there was some chance, but it’s not likely.”

“Basira really did a number on you,” Jon says.

“Yeah, she really went all out.”

“You’re welcome,” comes Basira’s voice again, then Daisy’s laugh.

“It’s good, though. At least it saved me.”

Jon speaks up again. “Do you have any news? Anything we should hear?”

“Here, I’ll give you to Basira. I don’t know anything.” There are sounds of shuffling, and then muffled words.

“Right,” Basira says, no longer muffled. She goes on to tell them about the institute—the official police declarations, the disappearances, the scattered sightings of monsters around London. Martin asks Basira to bring them some more statements, preferably in person this time. On the whole, Martin’s feeling rather relieved when he puts the phone down, so he’s surprised to see sadness on Jon’s face.

“Jon, are you alright?”

“Yes...yes, I am.” Jon says, but it’s slow and the expression doesn’t leave.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“No, really I—here, I’ll pay, I’ll tell you in a moment.”

“O—okay,” Martin says, a little taken aback. He clears away their paper cups as Jon pays at the counter, and then they walk out and onto the walking path, etched out along the road. 

For a few minutes, they walk in silence, Martin glancing nervously at Jon, who’s clearly deep in some sort of brooding. He’s not sure if he should speak. 

Eventually, he gets tired of waiting. “Jon, tell me what’s on your mind.”

Jon makes a frustrated face. “I don’t—”

“Because if you’re angry at me or something, there’s something called  _ communication _ —”

“No, no, I’m not mad at you, Martin. I just didn’t know how to...how to put it into words.”

“Then try.” 

Jon furrows his brow for a moment as if trying to form the words. “It’s just...They were so happy. They seemed so happy. And, I don’t know, maybe I’m  _ jealous.  _ Maybe I want that for us. I want us to be  _ happy.  _ To be free of all of this...this bullshit.”

“...Oh.”

“I know it’s...immature, or whatever. But I just want to be  _ done.  _ With Elias, with all of that. Done with the Institute, the panopticon, the end of the fucking world. And I know it’s not possible, but—”

And suddenly, Martin’s sure. He’s not sure why it took him so long.

“Let’s burn it.”

Jon looks at Martin, eyes wide. “What?”

“The statement. I want to burn it. F—fuck Elias, fuck the statements, fuck all of it,” he cries. Jon doesn’t answer for a moment, though, and Martin’s confidence faulters. “I mean, as long as you’re—”

“No, no,” Jon says, nodding quickly, “I’m actually kind of with you on that. Burn it, yes.”

“Yeah? Yeah!”

“The tape recorders, the tapes, all of it.” 

“I mean, what were we waiting for, really? Basira’s bringing more statements next week. And it’s not like you were gonna have that one anyway.”

Jon laughs. “You know, I really don’t know.”

They walk faster after that.

When they get home, it’s already darkening, and it’s cold enough that they probably would have set up a fire anyway. Martin places the wood in the fireplace and Jon pulls out his lighter, prodding at the hearth until the fire is burning merrily. 

Jon looks up. “So, time?”

Martin nods, inexplicably nervous. “Yeah. Probably best if I do the actual burning. Wouldn’t want you touching the paper itself, tempt your roiling, intense need, or whatever."

“You’re probably right.”

So Martin goes upstairs, retrieves the lockbox, takes the paper out.  _ Statement of Jonah Magnus, regarding the Archivist.  _ “Good riddance,” Martin says, staring at it for a moment, and then he folds the paper in half and heads back down.

“Any last words?” Martin asks, as he holds the paper near the flame.

“Not really. I mean, thanks a lot, Elias, for being a flaccid dick in a suit. But that goes without saying.”

Martin laughs. “Yeah, gotta echo the sentiment on that one.” Then, “Ooh!” as the statement catches, and then he drops it and the whole thing goes up.

From the bed, Jon cries out.

Martin’s bolt upright, rushing over in a second. “What was that? What happened?”

Jon shakes his head. “No, don’t worry, it’s…” he unbuttons his shirt slowly, and there’s a slightly smoldering spot above his heart. It’s in the shape of an eye.

“What’s that, a brand? An imprint, or something? Please tell me that’s not bad news, Elias watching us out of your chest or something.”

“No, I—” Jon smiles in what seems like relief, “I don’t think it is. Just another scar for the collection. Nothing more.”

“Oh,” Martin says, letting out a breath. “Well. Very classy, I think.”

“I’m sure that was the intention,” Jon replies, and Martin laughs, putting an arm around him as they watch the final bit of charred paper turn to ash.

“Do you think this will do it? Free us?”

Jon tilts his head, considering his answer. “I can’t be quite sure. I think a lot of Elias— _ Jonah  _ went into that statement. And destroying it…”

“...destroyed Elias?” Martin asks hopefully.

Jon smiles. “Unfortunately no. But I do think it weakened him. And that very well might be enough.

“Okay.” Martin laughs, shaky but real. “Okay.”

They end up sitting in the living room until the flame burns out completely, cold and dead in the fireplace. The sky outside gets dark, wind howling, but it’s all distant, safe, Martin feels still for the first time in he doesn’t know how long. And Jon has fallen asleep in his arms.

He can get used to this. And it seems like he’ll be given the chance to after all.

**Author's Note:**

> so,,, tma sure was a podcast huh
> 
> quick note, but daisy tonner's character for me is .. complicated at best, and i'd like to write something more in-depth about her in the future, since i know the question of whether or not she deserves a happy ending isn't simple. that said i just . wanted them all to be happy in this one and despite her flaws i do love her so !! here we are !!
> 
> thank you so much for reading, and please leave a comment and/or kudos if you liked it !!


End file.
